


The Curious Case of Miss Molly Hooper

by HiddlesBatchedSherlollian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluffy, Smut, Torture, physical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddlesBatchedSherlollian/pseuds/HiddlesBatchedSherlollian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back, and Molly is ill. It's a mystery Sherlock has to unravel, before malicious forces tear them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Begin

**Author's Note:**

> So hey! I'm new to this, my account on ff.net seems to be playing up, though most of my work is on there too.

Leaning her shoulder wearily against the wood of the door, searching frantically for the keys to her small flat, Molly sighed.

She could hear Toby's mournful mewing, punctuated by periodic soft little thumps of his head against the wood. Finally retrieving her keys, she rammed the one to her flat into the key hole and thrust the door open, relieved to be home at last; the strain of keeping quiet about Sherlock being really quite alive was finally, after two years, getting too much.

She hugged Toby close, allowing a few tears to fall, hoping that Tom was out and wouldn't catch her crying over Sherlock.

"Toby? Do you need feeding? You've been here, all alone all day. Or has Tom been home?" As she sniffled, he mewed, then fled as Tom entered the room. Tom leaned in for a kiss, surprising her.

"How was work today, sweetie? I hope there weren't too many dead people. Really, you should think about changing profession, especially since you had to autopsy your friend. Sheldon? Sherman? Ah whoever."

"Sherlock, Tom. His-his name is…was Sherlock." 

_And I'm in love with him._

"I'll go get you a cup of tea. Had a rough day, huh?"

Tom left her side abruptly, his face taking on a sickly smile that made her insides churn uneasily. She'd noticed him becoming more protective recently, asking if she was alright, placing his hand on her whenever he could, and never letting her go places alone.

She'd thought it cute, at first, but now…

It had gotten to the stage where he wouldn't let her cook, or go out with her friends, even making herself tea was out of the question. Possessive was probably a better way to describe it, but she was certain he didn't  _mean_ to be so imposing.. He just worried about her.

"Sweetheart, we've run out of milk. Are you alright here for a little while alone? Just don't touch the kettle, it's still boiling." She nodded absently, caught up in her thoughts.

Maybe he had a reason to worry. She _was_ clumsy, and was definitely losing a lot of weight. She had less energy, and as a result her autopsies were taking twice as long as usual. It had been happening for a while. Since Sherlock… Left. She was probably just worrying too much about him, missing him.

Nothing to worry about.

Toby slunk back into the room, purring as he jumped onto her lap. She stoked him, glad for the comfort.

Tom was lovely, really, he was, he just fussed about her, and tried to be everywhere at once, without giving her some time to be alone.

He'd moved in within a week of them going out regularly.

She got the distinct impression that Tom didn't like Toby, and that the feeling was more than mutual. Toby was particular as to who he liked, but the only person he had reacted to so strongly had been Jim, but Tom couldn't be like him. He couldn't. She'd know. This time, she'd know.

Still. Perhaps Toby's instincts were better than hers, after all. She didn't see Jim for what he was, and she did seem to have a preference for dark socio/psychopaths. She resolved to break up with him as soon as possible.


	2. Arm Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical work day for Molly, kind of graphic in parts... :)

Turns out, she couldn't.

Early the following Monday, Molly found herself stumbling, half blinded by the harsh neon lighting, into the morgue. She took a deep, steadying breath of the cool, sterile air, feeling it calm her nerves just by being in her element. Whilst she may be awkward and clumsy in the outside world, here, like a seal in water, she felt free to be her true self and as such she flourished.

Three bodies had come in overnight, what looked to be a drunken bar fight gone fatally wrong.

She had no doubt that had Sherlock been there, he would requested several parts from them, as they seemed to all be in fairly good physical condition- discounting the numerous cuts, bruises, and fractures.

Dissecting the first man's stomach was about as pleasant as being slapped in the face with a vomit soaked slightly rotten fish, as the sheer amount of alcohol he had imbibed had effectively preserved his last meal. God knows that if he hadn't died from blunt force trauma to the cranium several hours before –head slammed into pavement several times, severe cranial haematoma and swelling in brain- he would have found his way onto her table eventually.

Switching her blood covered gloves for another, clean pair, she took samples of his blood, any skin cells from under his fingernails, mouth swabs and estimated the time of death to have been roughly one AM.

Moving onto the second corpse, she noted the lack of defensive and offensive wounds, suggesting he had not been involved in the bar fight at all. 

Alcohol had suffused his clothing, and a single stab wound in his back pointed to the cause of death.

Slicing into the deceased's abdomen, she could see that the stab wound had punctured his lungs and just skimmed his heart, so at least his death had been relatively quick.

Arm deep in the man, she observed the unusual slant of the wound, suggesting it had come from someone taller than him. 

A tall man, most likely.

The wound itself had an unusual pattern,as though the blade was serrated on both sides.

She felt a stab of sympathy for the poor guy.

That would have hurt like hell. Continuing to dig around in his chest cavity, she found something… unusual in his stomach. 

And certainly unexpected; a tumour. She carefully catalogued it, and then set about removing it. She was certain there was more to this than met the eye, but she just couldn't see what the hell it was.

It was times like this that she missed Sherlock's influence the most. He could take one look at that body and just… Know what was wrong, why they had been murdered, how and by whom, and she would be left in his wake like a little boat caught in the slipstream of a cruise liner, or trapped in the eye of the storm, only able to watch, fascinated as he whirled around her, unable to escape. 

If she was honest, unable to want to escape. 

What made it worse was that she knew that he knew she felt like that, and took advantage of it, taking body parts, conducting experiments in her morgue, taking control of her life whenever it suited him.

Yet she loved him for it, even though she knew that he observed her as merely a means to an end, or at most "Someone who counts". He'd never reciprocate her feelings, and for years she had thought it would be enough, but now, now that she had begun feeling weak and, well, ill, she longed for someone who loved her to come home to, who genuinely cared for her.

She wanted Sherlock to be that person, despite knowing that it would never be, despite being engaged to a kind, caring, slightly overbearing -at times- man. In all honesty, that was what had first drawn her to Tom. He looked like Sherlock, acted a bit like him sometimes, just without the horrid putting downs- at first- so she had thought she could be happy with him. 

But Toby didn't like him, so really, it was Toby or Tom. Toby would always win out. She looked down, not realising that she had already completed the last autopsy from last night. Her attention span was slipping; she'd suddenly come back to herself, not knowing what she had just done or how long she had been out of it.

"Molly Hooper, you have got to stop thinking about him. He is alive and well, and you should know better than to spend God knows how long moping over something that is not going to happen. Just be glad he needed you to follow through with his plan. You know he's alive."

Ranting at herself was something she had started doing in her teens, when she was feeling particularly stressed and, for the most part, it worked. She moved away from the bodies, calling in her assistant to put the cadavers into their respective refrigerators. Rinsing down the examination tables, she wondered wistfully whether Sherlock would return to them soon. 

It was nearly two years to the day since he had come to her asking for help, with those glacial eyes that seemed to hold entire universes she'd never understand beseeching her; how could she have said no? She never said no.

Her pager beeped, announcing the imminent arrival of a new body. She sighed, pulled on a new pair of latex gloves, and headed up to meet it. It was going to be an exhausting day.


	3. Haunting Melody - Aka Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is finally back on the scene!

The tedium of constantly returning to the same flat was far outweighed by the presence of Mrs Hudson, the amenities nearby and the simple fact that he hated change.

For all he was constantly searching for a new thrill, something to alleviate the crushing boredom everyday life brought, he liked having somewhere relatively warm to come home to. He always knew that Mrs Hudson would welcome him, and take care of his tea needs. 

The past two years, whilst being exciting and full of, well, adventure, had made him bored of living in a new place every few months; as such, he was greatly looking forwards to returning to the familiar setting of Baker Street. And he missed good English tea.

As the car pulled to a stop outside one of Mycroft's numerous safe houses, he broke the silence that had persisted the entire journey back from Serbia.

"John?"

"John seems to be fine, Sherlock. "

"Gary? Wait. No. Garth? Graham?"

"Detective inspector Lestrade is doing as well as expected. Although you might be interested to hear that Anderson is one of the few to believe that you are in fact alive."

Sherlock frowned, contemplating Anderson's sudden belief in him. Guilt, he surmised, was eating away at Anderson, forcing him to change his views regarding Sherlock. Pity. He always liked having a verbal spar with the idiot.

"Mrs Hudson? I presume you have kept tabs on her, and I would have known by now if something had happened to her."

"Brother dear, why don't you simply visit them? You can't hide from them forever, surely. You've become so... Sentimental of late."

Sherlock lapsed into silence. He considered asking after his pathologist, asking if she was happy knowing he was alive and if she had perhaps... Moved on. The thought left a bitter aftertaste, though quite why he pushed far into the depths of his mind palace, to puzzle over later. Much later.

"Well Sherlock, this little sojourn has been just lovely, but now we have some serious matters to attend to. Such as the underground terrorist plot to blow up London. Though perhaps you should have a shave and a hair cut before then, you look positively wild!"

Leading the way through the labyrinth of corridors, Mycroft monotonously informed him of the particulars of the suspected attack, before thrusting him into a reclining chair. 

Whilst a barber set about making him look somewhat presentable, Sherlock's thoughts returned to Molly. Loathe to ask about her, yet burning with curiosity, he instead returned his focus to Mycroft.

"...wading in, you know how much i hate field work! Honestly you have no idea of the noise... The people!"

" 'Wading in'? You sat there and let me be beaten to a pulp!"

"Well I couldn't risk exposing myself! Besides. I got you out."

"No, I got me out. You were enjoying it."

"No." Mycroft's face slipped into the familiar icy mask he wore to hide his emotions; the lack of outward emotion was in itself a more than obvious indicator of his guilt.

"Definitely. Enjoying it." Sherlock returned to his position, allowing the barber to continue his ministrations. 

Whilst Mycroft had always been a bore, Sherlock had always managed to stay somewhat interested in what he said. 

However, currently, despite having no basic human contact in any positive way for two years, he would gladly commit murder to get rid of his incessant ramblings. Maybe he could. The only problem would be that he'd execute the perfect murder, so pointers would lead to him purely in so far that no one else would be a possible choice. However since most of the world thought he was dead,-

"Sherlock it is just possible that you won't be welcomed back." His brothers voice cut through his thoughts.

"No, it isn't." Sherlock knew John had missed him. After all, he had heard John beg him to not be dead, at his grave. He would be fulfilling his greatest wish! And Molly would be so happy to finally be able to tell everyone after two years... He shook the errant thought out if his head.

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Mycroft smiled snidely.

"...You know what." Anthea brought the coat to him, slipping it over his broadened shoulders, toned from so many months doing strenuous activities. "I will find your underground network, Mycroft. Thank you. Blud." With that, he left, winding his way through the myriad of corridors, before Mycroft's highly irritating voice echoed down.

"Oh Sherlock? Molly Hooper. She's engaged. Moved on. Do be nice to the poor girl, won't you? She's already had to lie to everyone she loves for two years. I'd hate to see you damage her even further." 

Molly. 

She meant more to him than anyone knew, quite how much she mean being a fact that he kept hidden to even himself. Sentiment had always made him uneasy, not quite knowing how to react to other people in a way socially acceptable. 

Molly, however... Awkward, unsociable, kind Molly had always been nice to him. 

In fact, she fawned.

It was sickening, really, how easy he could manipulate her, but he had... Missed her. Two years ago he would never have thought it, but he had found his thoughts returning to her more frequently, at times, than even John. He had spent evenings contemplating just how to make it up to her, both to apologise for his appalling treatment, and to thank her for helping him when he needed her the most. He'd have to find them a case.

Arriving back at Baker Street, he made his way silently up the stairs to his flat. Everything was as he had left it. Something dangerously close to gratitude for Mrs Hudson's foresight flickered within him. Putting it down to relief at being home at last, all but one loose end of Moriarty's network tied up, he smiled. His violin laid in the same place as it always had, the ridiculous ear hat on the back of his chair and the telly in the corner.

He ran his hand reverently over the smooth surface of his bow, having had missed the exquisite euphoria and sense of peace he could only ever achieve whilst composing. He experimentally touched the bow to the strings, as lightly as a feather. 

A horrifying wailing erupted from the instrument; such was to be expected after two years of neglect.

He shuddered to think what else had suffered in the two years of his absence. John's moustache, for example. He hadn't expected such a marked change in his friend. The moustache would have to go.

Having absently tuned the instrument lying dormant in his hands, he once again raised the violin to his shoulder and began to play, a haunting, yet angry staccato that echoed throughout the building and struck chords deep within the hidden depths of his soul. The music rose and fell around him, creating waves of sound that wrapped itself around him, cocooning him in a bubble of peaceful calm despite the erratic tempo and harsh notes.

His thoughts returned to Molly, drawing her image from deep within his mind palace, her small pale face, her long brown hair so constrained within the confines of a black rubber hair band, the way his name fell from her lips on a soft exhale - making it sound exotic yet oddly sensuous. His playing had become smooth and graceful, lonely yet soothing, a beautiful melody drawn from repressed sentiment.

He was interrupted by a scream. Mrs Hudson's. He dropped the violin abruptly, striding forcefully over to where she stood.

"Sherlock! You're dead! No!"

"Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson! Clearly, I am not dead. I apologise for lying to you for so long. It was, I assure you, completely necessary..." She cut him off by smacking him forcefully on the chest, before grasping him firmly in a hug. Tears cascaded down her face.

"Oh Sherlock, you have no idea... We've all missed you so much, and John, he has only been to see me once the cheeky sod, and oh doesn't he look so old with that ghastly moustache? And poor Molly has been working herself to the bone, poor lamb, though she does have a nice fiancée, lovely young man, so softly spoken and well mannered..."

"Mrs Hudson, if you wouldn't mind..." He carefully extricated himself from the confines of her arms, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "I have to go and let John know that I'm.. not dead..."

"Oh! Of course! You must let him know. He's missed you so much. And Sherlock...!"

Already out of the door, he completely missed her telling him of John's soon to be fiancée.


	4. Thick Trails of Sticky Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinda cute fluffyish chapter, Molly fixes Sherlock up after he has a run in with Jawn.

Collapsing onto her bed three weeks later, Molly thought about seeing Sherlock again. It had been both infinitely better, and excessively worse than she had been expecting. The rush of emotions, expected. The longing, expected.

What she hadn't expected was for him to look so tired, or her need to take him in her arms and just… look after him.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, swiftly, trying to get some warmth into them.

The ring on her finger glinted in the dim light of her lamp, throwing shining fragments of light against the walls.

Thankfully, Tom was away for three weeks, so she could tidy the place up her way, and not have to worry about him fussing over her. Sherlock had noticed the ring, of course. 

No doubt Mycroft had told him, sly fox that he was. 

Changing into a pair of worn fleece pyjamas, she curled up on the sofa to watch a rerun of Doctor Who, grabbing a bag of crisps to eat. As the opening credits ran, she recognised Sally Sparrow and shuddered. Blink was an amazing episode, but god did those Angels give her the creeps!

An hour, two packets of crisps and a spilled drink later, Molly stared nervously around her flat. It's just fiction, stupid. They aren't going to get you.

A tap at her door elicited a squeak from her, then a mental shake. For christ's sake, she worked in a morgue! Steeling her nerves, she crept down the small hallway, wincing when she hit a creaky floorboard.

Cautiously, slowly, she opened the door a crack, barely able to catch a glimpse of long dark coat, blue scarf and impossibly sharp cheekbones before Sherlock forced the door open and was in her flat.

"Uh, what..What are you doing here? Sherlock, it's ten o'clock at night! I have to go to work in the morning, and…" She trailed off. Dried blood clung to his lips, presumably from his nose, which still had a thick trail of sticky blood oozing from it.

"I take it John wasn't overly happy to see you then? Oh, sit down, I'll fix your nose and lip for you…"

She hurried off to the kitchen, looking for her med kit, dropping several pans in her frantic search. It wasn't so much that he needed immediate attention, more.. she worries about what mischief he would get up to left unattended. 

Med kit in hand, she turned suddenly, slamming into the hard wall of his chest.

"I told you to sit down." Her thudding heart wouldn't slow back down, she was certain that if she made eye contact he would see her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, so stared fixedly at the muscled column of his throat. 

He felt so muscular, completely unlike he had when he had lain on her table, allowing her to take him measurements. 

Then, he had been soft, almost... Delicate. The last two years had certainly been kind to his physique, if not to the rest of him.

His hands, which had impulsively reached out to stabilise her, rested just in the hollow of her back, as light as a butterfly.

He studied her face, the way her really rather vile pyjamas hung from her slight frame, and her hair hung limply around her face. 

Faint lines circled her eyes, smudged concealer failing to do its job of hiding the deep purple hollows surrounding them, whilst her entire face was pallid. 

Something was very wrong with Molly.


	5. Experimental Sleeping Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock get a decent night's sleep, a first for both of them in a long time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for not updating in so long, school, exams, jobs and life have kept me distracted and meant I have been unable to update! Unfortunately, a good friend of mine lost her Daddy to cancer last week, whilst another friend of mine found out his Mummy might have cancer. Really makes this story a bit more personal to me. I will endeavour to update a minimum of twice a week from here onwards!

Molly awoke encompassed within the warm cocoon of Sherlock's arms, very confused and extremely happy. Struggling to get out of his grip, she could not summon then energy and strength of character needed to remove herself from his comforting embrace. Exhausted, she settled back against his chest, trying to understand the events of the night before. Sharing a bed with Sherlock had been the most bewildering experience of her life, including the whole Jim debacle. Expecting him to take the bed, she had tried to make herself a little nest on her worn sofa, shifting and fidgeting for what felt like hours, until Sherlock's deep baritone interrupted her.

"Molly, just get into bed with me. Your constant movement will just irritate me all night long and no doubt tomorrow you will be stiff and sore, completely unable to move without pain. I need you tomorrow, so come over here." She had stilled, not quite believing what she had heard.

"Please, Molly?" Slowly easing her way off the sofa, through the dark flat and into her bedroom, she had lingered in the doorway for a moment, each looking at the other in companionable silence. Sherlock had gestured towards the far side of the bed; the side she usually slept on.

"How did you know..? Actually, never mind. You're Sherlock Holmes. You always know..."

Sherlock sighed.

"His side of the bed is made up more neatly than yours, suggesting it hasn't been slept in, and traces of your perfume linger on the messy side. Simple, really.."

Slipping into the bed beside him, she turned her back, keeping as far away as possible… for his sake. She hadn't expected his arms to encircle her, pulling her flush against him. She'd squeaked, completely involuntarily, tensing all over. He had to have known the effect he had on her. "... Relax, Molly. Go to sleep. You look like you need it.." His voice had trailed off, soothing her, making her melt back against his chest. She had fallen asleep wrapped safely in his arms, feeling safer and more at peace than she had for most of her adult life.

Work the next day was an... Interesting experience. Six bodies had come in, twice her usual workload, two of whom would have died within six months regardless. Cancer. Surprisingly, other than the tumours and the signs of severe weight loss, their bodies showed no outward signs of being ill. At all. On a hunch, she tested them for radiation, detecting slight – but not worrying – levels of alpha radiation from both men’s stomachs.

Adding their cases to the three that had come in before Sherlock had come back, five victims had died of unnatural causes, all suffering from an extremely rare species of stomach cancer, two giving off radiation. It frustrated her, not knowing how they all had the same strain of cancer, despite having no connection to one another, no similar eating or drinking habits, nothing at all to direct her to the cause. One smoked, two had tried recreational drugs, four of them were under 35 and the other was eighty five years old.

She texted Sherlock, since if she couldn't get it, he almost certainly could.

"I mean, it could be a coincidence, but... "

"The universe is rarely so lazy, Molly." Within moments of sending the text, he was at her side, two coffees in hand and a spring in his step.

"Oh! Sherlock. Yes, um, they're in there. All five, I thought you'd maybe want to.. Look at them." Dammit, it had been wonderful waking up in his arms but now she was a bumbling idiot, tripping over her words and blushing more than ever. She had basically cheated on Tom. And willingly!

"Molly. Stop worrying, it's irritating. Your thoughts show so plainly on your face, it's no wonder .. uh.. Tom? Tom. Is still there. He doesn't need to ask what you think, does he?" Holding open the door for her, he waited until she was in the coldest room in the morgue before beginning to examine the bodies. A thrill of excitement ran down his spine, knowing that there was a mystery to be solved in the room.

She had done excellent autopsies on them, he begrudgingly conceded, as she prattled on about what she found, and waited for her to finish. After... Whatever happened last night, he felt tense around her, and didn't want to say the wrong thing.

She had felt so fragile pressed against him, as though a simple breath of wind would shatter her into a thousand pieces, and carry her away from him and everyone who loved her.

Though he'd known the thought was illogical, it had pestered him all night and long into the morning. Even now, he was conscious of her every move, searching her face for signs of just what was wrong. She looked far better rested than she had when he visited her before, yet the circles around her eyes and the gauntness of her cheeks suggested that it hasn't been enough.

"Molly, I'd like to conduct an experiment. You are exhausted. I cannot return to my flat, as it is currently being... Remodelled. Last night, you slept better than I would guess you have for months, judging by your weight loss, disrupted sleeping patterns and the shadows under your eyes. God above, Molly, you're a walking skeleton! Uh so, yes. I propose that for the next few weeks, I sleep with you, at yours. I shall move some of my stuff this evening."

Molly froze, gaping at him. _What the hell?!_

"T-Tom is going to be back soon. He, uh, he's only gone for a few days. He said a week at most. So we can't. I mean you uh we...Oh." She bit her lip at the obvious deception, the twinkle in Sherlock’s eye as he smiled proving she had been unsuccessful in her attempt, as he attempted – with more success- to weaken her defences.

"I'll get Mycroft to change his plans for me. This is important, Molly. For both of us. Please? Let me help you?" Using all of his powers of manipulation and persuasion, he watched indecision and guilt war on her face.

"How long? For, I mean. How long would it be for?" She had her lip caught between her teeth, distracting him momentarily.

"I-Uhm." He cleared his throat, trying again. "I though perhaps a trial period of two weeks, and if it works, you could stay with me thrice a week after. I'm  _sure_  Tom won't mind. If he does we can persuade him, or Mycroft can."

"Definitely just two weeks? Starting tonight?" Again with the nibbling on her lip. He would have to get her to stop soon.

"How about if we start counting from the start of the new week? The rest of this week you could sleep alone, if that's what you would prefer..." Silence met his  _offer_. Watching her from beneath his lashes, he bent over the nearest corpse, taking periodic sniffs. Unfortunately, being in such a sterile environment had removed all but the barest traces of any lingering foreign scents, a small part of his mind noticed.

" I don't mind if you want to stay tonight. I mean I can take the sofa, try not to move too much this time..." Satisfied with her answer, he nodded, moving to examine the next body. Five dead, all cancer sufferers, not killed by their cancer but conveniently before any serious symptoms could emerge. It was puzzling, but he was determined to find the answer.


End file.
